Fingers Of Chance Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Life stretches itself, sprawls before me, tired of daily
routines and pressures from without.

Temporarily waylaid to regain some composure, watching the
irrelevant duties drift by, fascinated with the quality
of life decayed.

Fortunate are those who have passed away, not having to
continue the hell of earth.

Peaceful situations are created sometimes, but more often
than not, problems flourish and ground out the blessed
meaning of life.

Turning wheels of fate and destiny are fingers of chance,
everything we do is risky, because we do not know what
our futures will be.

Theories are obtainable in volumes of books, in words of
lectures, moving pictures, but none come close or enter
the realms of truth.

Life is a secondly decision, amounting to some history in
each person's space of time.

Foraging inner atmospheres for greener pastures, our desires
lead us constantly astray, away from the pretended hopes and
dreams held out to us since our beginnings.

Treading existence as if we own it's birth, silent sacredness
is non-existent, life is a play, acted for benefits of certain
types of people and the rest of us merely exist to pay them
homage.

Unfortunately we are not supposed to be cast into the depths
of materialistic wealth like so many others, for we are
subjected to rules and commandments of goodness.